Ex Libris
by rickfan37
Summary: A collection of short stories written in 30 minutes in response to a Live Journal community challenge, rated R for certain chapters.
1. The Competition

AUTHOR'S NOTE 

****

This is a collection of short stories written in response to challenges set by Leogryffin on her Live Journal community 30minutefics. The rules are quite simple; she sets a challenge and the writer must produce a story within 30 minutes. The only limitation on length is therefore the speed at which I can type (And I'm getting better, LOL!)

I hope you enjoy these. Although I am firmly committed to my SS/OFC pairing, I am tempted to work on a few of these and turn them into longer pieces.

Please review, and let me know what you think.

                     **************************************

The Competition 

He clutched the book to his chest as he hurried across the quadrangle. Professor Sprout had been most helpful, perusing the list of ingredients he had made and promising to gather them together for him the next day. Lucius sneered at Professor Sprout because she always had dirty fingernails, but Severus enjoyed her lessons. Botany was an important part of Potions making, and that was his passion. He applied himself in her lessons, and she seemed to have a soft spot for him.

He knew his potion would be a success, because even though he had set himself a difficult challenge it was one he felt sure he could meet. Once in the dungeon corridor that led to the Slytherin common room he broke into a run, impatient to read the competition rules again before he submitted his application. 

He sat on his bed and drew the heavy green curtains for privacy before setting the book down in front of him and turning to the back page. There it was, "The Three Hundred and Twenty-Ninth 'Ars Alchemica Annual' Annual Potions Competition". He smirked. Once the judges tested his entry he would be bound to win. 

He did not care about the prize money, although twenty galleons would be very welcome; the thought of a year's free subscription to the periodical Ars Alchemica, his favourite and the reason his brother had given him the Annual as a birthday gift, gave him a warm glow; but the real attraction was the recognition that would be his, should he win. The admiration and the approval. Correction, WHEN he won, for surely he could not fail. 

                                       ****

"And it's Snape, Snape sends a bludger straight for Potter, but Potter dips and it misses him, and there's the Snitch again, he's seen it, it's Potter right on its tail, but there's Snape and OH, NO! He's been hit by Gryffindor's bludger! Straight into Potter's path, and they're down! They're both down, and they're hurt!"

                                       ****

Severus lay flat on his back and stared at the vaulted ceiling, his right arm in plaster up to his shoulder and a half empty bottle of Skele-Grow on his bedside cabinet. He was bored. Lucius had been gone for ages, Severus did not know why. Surely it was the work of a few moments to retrieve the Ars Alchemica book from his bed and fetch it to him? And then he could while away the rest of the afternoon reading the article on Wolfsbane, until he was discharged. He hoped Madam Pomfrey, the new nurse, would not feel she had to err on the side of caution and try to keep him there for too long. He had to add the final ingredients to his prize-winning potion between midnight and three in the morning, or else all his hard work would be ruined.

He looked across the ward to where James Potter was holding court with his pathetic friends, making far too much noise behind the drawn screens and disturbing Severus' peace. What a drama queen, he thought bitterly. All Potter did was graze his knee, for pity's sake. Pomfrey should have told him not to be such a baby and sent him on his way. 

The infirmary door creaked open and Severus' head snapped round to see not Lucius, as he had hoped, but Madam Pomfrey. Her low heels clipped as she marched across to his bed, and she took out her wand and passed it over his arm. She frowned.

"Well, young man, those bones don't seem to want to knit!" she scolded, as if it was his fault. "You'll have to stay here another night, and that plaster won't be coming off any time soon, either!"

"What?" he said, alarmed. "But I need to – I have to – How can I use my wand like this?"

She rolled her eyes. "I would have thought that was obvious, Snape! You can't!"

Shooing Black, Lupin and Pettigrew out of her infirmary, she turned on her heel and went into her office, closing the door.

"But the competition!" he whispered to himself. "How can I win the competition now?"

He had set his heart on it, and as he stared into space his breath hitched and tears rolled down his cheeks unnoticed.

Unnoticed by Snape, at least.

By the time he got back to his potion it was ruined. There would be no time to start again, the deadline would have passed by the time it was complete. He pointed his wand at the book in a fit of pique, incinerating it with a vehement hex.

In a foul mood, he slunk across the Entrance Hall on his way to dinner. Potter and his Dream Team were sniggering and he overheard snatches of their conversation as he passed.

"Honestly, he was crying!"

"What a big baby!"

"Really, James? Was he?"

"Yeah, really! Snuffling and snivelling, he was!"

"Hey, look, there he goes now! There's 'Snivellus'!"

"Hahaha! Snivellus! Nice one, Sirius mate!"

And so it began.


	2. The Scream

The Scream.

It was only a book. He was sure there were very many more like it, and more than a handful were probably even worse. The Restricted Section of Hogwarts' library was so called for a reason, after all. As he had reached adulthood he had been permitted to share more of its secrets; quite apart from becoming an Auror, he had been The Boy Who Destroyed Voldemort and Ended The War, so he supposed he had the right.  
He had never found that book again, though, and therein lay the problem.  
He had seen it often since that fateful night, but only in his nightmares where the face entrapped there would rise from the printed page and scream to be released. He had never told anyone about that book, not even Hermione and Ron, for after the event he had seen his parents in the Mirror of Erised and had been caught up in dreams of what his life might have been like, had they lived. He had forgotten all about the book, for several years.  
The first nightmare had been halfway through his sixth year, and he had woken with a silent scream, drenched in sweat. He could barely even remember the nightmare, but snatches of it remained with him for days. After that, it occurred several more times a year and its after-effects lingered for longer every time. The rage he felt against the world in general and Voldemort in particular had been as much of a constant in his life as his friends had been, and it seemed that the face in the book was also determined to secure a place in his life,  
  
*****  
  
"Harry, what's wrong?"  
"Nothing! I'm okay!" he said, sitting up in bed and wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. It was a cold midwinter night and the cool air chilled his brow. The moon was full and as Ginny sat up beside him the clouds parted, outlining her in silver and darkening her hair to deepest auburn against the alabaster of her skin.  
"No you aren't, Harry," she said softly, stroking his hair and gasping in surprise as she felt its dampness. "Have you got a temperature?"  
"No. It's nothing like that. It was the dream again, Gin."  
"Oh, love! I think it's time we went to see Albus, don't you?"  
  
*****  
  
"Tea?" twinkled the aged Headmaster of Hogwarts School, waving his hand to summon a small occasional table and a tray of tea and fairy cakes.  
  
Once they were settled and all the social pleasantries had been taken care of, Dumbledore turned to Harry, his face grave.  
"Now then Harry, would you care to tell me what it is that brings you here today? I know that this is more than a most welcome social call."  
Harry cleared his throat sheepishly, and his wife took his hand and gave it a gentle squeeze.  
"Well, Albus, I don't think I ever told you this but back in my first year, that same evening I found the Mirror of Erised, I'd, erm…well, I'd been in the library, looking for something."  
"Ah yes, yes, you were looking for information on my old friend Nicholas Flamel, weren't you?"  
"Erm…yes. Yes I was. But I found something else instead."  
"Indeed?"  
"An ancient book…it screamed when I opened it."  
"Yes, some of them do have a tendency to do that…" Dumbledore mused. "Many of them have to be chained down, you know."  
"The book's given me nightmares ever since, and they're getting worse. I don't know why. And I've never been able to find it again."  
"And so you came back to try to solve the mystery?"  
"We were hoping you could help, Albus," Ginny said.  
"I'll do my best," he said, rising to his feet. "Shall we?"  
  
*****  
  
They had found the offending book, after a while. They had struggled with books that tried to wrench themselves from their hands, books that began to smoke as soon as they were touched, books that made themselves invisible, and of course several that screamed, before they came to the right one.  
It was the Headmaster who took it down from the shelf, examining the cracked leather bindings and faded gilt lettering of the cover.  
"Would this be the one, Harry?"  
"I – I can't remember. I think so," Harry said uncertainly, taking it from Dumbledore unwillingly.  
"Open it," the Headmaster urged.  
Harry swallowed, and glanced at his wife who smiled at him encouragingly. He took a deep breath and opened the book. The scream was horrific. Bloodcurdling. Harry took a step backwards as the force of the scream blew back his hair from his face, but he held the book open and watched as the printed face from his nightmares did its worst. After a minute or two, the screaming changed to a mournful wail, and eventually quieted to anguished moans and sighs. Wide eyed, Harry closed the book and replaced it on the shelf.  
"What on earth IS that book anyway?" he asked.  
Dumbledore shook his head. "Does it matter, Harry? Or is it more important that you have faced your fear, and not been found wanting?"  
"I suppose…" he replied.   
"It sounded so sad, at the end," said Ginny, slipping her arm around her husband's waist. "As if its anger had died and been replaced by sadness."  
"Or acceptance," Harry said thoughtfully.  
"Indeed it did, Harry. Indeed it did."


	3. Bewitched by Blackness

This is in response to Challenge #15 on Livejournal's 30minutefic community,to write a pairing I would never normally write. I wondered for days what to write, and who the protagonists should be, but then I remembered a particularly cruel comment Snape makes to my OFC in 'Snape In Love', and this sprang to mind. I took the full 30 minutes on this, and completed it just in the time!  
  


WARNING: this one is rated R.  
  
  
Bewitched by Blackness  
  
Hermione knew he was there, waiting for her. She could hear him breathing, even above the crackling of the fire that warmed her room. She locked and warded the door and walked over to the fireplace where she began slowly to strip off her clothes. She knew that he liked to watch.  
Soon she wore only her satin camisole and a thong, and she turned to where she knew he sat, silently waiting for her. She smiled into the darkest recesses of the room and murmured,   
"Come here!"  
He bled from the shadows, and at the sight of him she ran her tongue along her teeth. He was blacker than black, in every way, and she never felt so wanton as when he came to service her. She ran her hands over her breasts and shivered as her nipples hardened into peaks. He sat at her feet on the soft fur rug and his dark eyes held hers as her fingers slipped underneath her thong, pulling it down and kicking it off. He leaned towards her and she knew that he could smell her arousal. He had excellent olfactory skills. She supposed he had had years of practice, after all. She stood with her legs splayed and he leaned further into her, nuzzling her damp curls. She closed her eyes and bit her bottom lip, pulling the camisole over her head, impatient now.   
Still he made no sound, staring at her intently. She knelt before him and laid her hand against his face.  
"I've been wanting this all day," she said. He drew back his mouth in an approximation of a smile, the closest he ever got to one, and she laughed softly. She looked down to see his huge erection poking from the blackness between his legs, and she shivered, wet heat pooling between her thighs. He got to his feet, eager for her as she was for him, so she turned her back on him and crouched over on the rug. "Now!" she urged.  
He needed no further invitation. In a flash he was on her, straddling her, close to her between her legs as he thrust into her, without ceremony, without any need for gentleness for she had none, she had only pure animal lust coursing through her veins, a passion that had increased with each of their encounters and which was fast becoming an addiction., for surely no-one else had ever made love in such a way as this.  
He did not take long, he never did. Sometimes she wished that he would take his time, and allow her longer to enjoy the sensation of him thrusting inside her, but she knew that such consideration was not in his nature. She heard a low growl as he spurted into her, once, twice, three times, and then he withdrew and she fell forward on to the rug, rolling over to clutch at his hair with her hands and draw his face close to hers.  
"Now what are you going to do for me?" she asked, slightly out of breath.  
He never needed telling twice, she thought as she spread her legs and welcomed him. He nuzzled at her curls once more, his panting growing heavier, and began to lap at her wet folds, drinking her juices mingled with the salt taste of his own. As his tongue tantalised her most sensitive places and his teeth began to nip gently at her labia, she felt tension build, ever stronger, and she began to moan in ecstasy as he brought her unerringly to climax. She heard his animal growl once more and then she was coming and in her bliss she screamed out his name,  
"Oh, gods! Oh, yes! Yes! Padfoot!"  
  
**************************  
  
Yes, yes, I know. Horrible, isn't it? Certainly both the implied and actual pairings are ones I would never dream of writing, given the choice!  
Sorry, folks!  
And the inspiration for this came from this cruel comment by Snape; "Are four legs better than two?" In this case, yes!


	4. In Memoriam

**The challenge:**

New Year's Eve. This can be funny, smutty, serious, angsty, desperate - doesn't matter.  
  
Please include:  
-a spell or potion that has not worked as intended,  
-alcoholic beverage of some type,  
-a kiss at midnight, of course ;)

                    ******************************************

In Memoriam 

Seeing the statue for the first time was nearly her undoing, although looking back she realised that that in fact had come a short while later. She had been standing in the window of the Infirmary when it had arrived on the back of a rude cart pulled by two thestrals. She saw them clearly, their blackness seeming to suck all of the light out of the dim autumn day, for she had witnessed death. All of those who remained had. The last battle had been a bloody one indeed, and she had emptied her cupboards of bandages and her stores of draughts and potions and still the wounded had come. 

He had been one of the last, broken and bloodied beyond all recognition, and yet she had known him. How could she fail to recognise that careworn face, haughty even in extremity; those long limbs, twisted now; that lean body, bruised and battered. She had tended to it often enough, over the years, knew almost every inch of it, and yet they had never been more than colleagues. Never friends, not really, certainly never lovers. No. Not they.

Sibyll and Minerva were overseeing the statue's levitation from the cart and into the school. Circumstances had forced their collaboration and neither one looked happy about it, but then there was precious little to be happy about. She sighed and pinned a stray tendril of greying hair back underneath her starched cap, and busied herself straightening sheets and folding screens. The Infirmary had been empty for weeks now, the sudden horrific rush of activity a few weeks ago now the stuff of nightmares and waking phantasms. All of her patients had either died or been transferred to St Mungo's where they remained still, and the school stood empty save for those members of staff who had survived. She stayed on for there was nowhere else for her to go; and she had faith in the Headmistress when she said that the school would rise again, phoenix like, from the ashes of its destruction, for she had to have faith in something after all.

She looked around at the empty beds and her gaze fell on one in the far corner. He had lain there and she had tended him, like so many times before, only this time she had failed him. She had not been capable enough to save him. She had held the potion to his lips, one that he himself had brewed and she had kept, stronger than all the rest for his need after years of abuse was always greater, and she had willed him to live. She had willed it with a desperation that alarmed her with its vehemence. There had been enough death, and she would not allow him to add his name to the list, not after everything they had been through.

The potion had failed. She had drizzled two vials of it between his parched, cracked lips and then he had pushed her hand away and rasped,

"No. No more."

She saw death draw its shutters across his eyes and there was nothing more she could do for him. Thirty years, man and boy, and the best that she could say was that she was with him at the end.

A crypt had been hewn from the bedrock on which Hogwarts stood. It was fitting that the final resting place of so many of its inhabitants be within the confines of the school they had loved and he had loved the school far more than many had realised. And now the statue would be his memorial, guardian of his earthly remains. She smiled sadly. He would not have wanted all the fuss that surrounded a hero's death, she knew that, but at least he was at home underground, in the bowels of the school.

She found herself visiting the crypt more and more as the year stretched to a close. She would sit for hours staring up at the tall, dark man with the proud features and the flowing black robes, frozen forever in marble. No-one missed her or wondered where she was. No-one would have guessed and sought her out, were it not for the New Year's Eve 'party'. Sibyll's idea, of course, and Minerva was too tired to argue about it. It had been a party in name only, of course, for its guests could be numbered on two hands. Were there really so few of them left? 

No-one noticed her slip from the staff room with a bottle of his favourite firewhisky in her hands. She did not want to celebrate the beginning of the New Year; she wanted to mourn the passing of the old one, and she wanted to mourn him. She stood before him and raised the neck of the bottle to her lips, knowing that it was an acquired taste and that it would sting, but praying that it would at least make her feel warm inside for the first time in months.

"Slainthe, Severus," she said, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand and feeling the sting of the whisky on her lips. "We're expected to make a new start for the New Year. What do you think about that, hmm?"

Then she set the bottle down and picked up her skirts, stepping on to the granite plinth that stood at the foot of his sarcophagus. Even on a level with the statue it still dwarfed her, for it was life size and he had been so much taller than she. He had stood taller than any other man she had known, she knew that now. Now that it was too late to tell him.

She told him anyway, slipping her arms around the cold, unyielding stone and looking into the lifeless black orbs that were so unlike his eyes. She pressed her lips to his cheek, closed her eyes, and let her tears fall where they would for he would not complain, not ever. Not ever again.


	5. Afterlife Lessons

Challenge 20

"I found my love too late  
Running around day after day  
Looking for the time to play  
While my old friends slipped away"  
  
--Jackson Browne, "Sleep's Dark and Silent Gate"

Rating; G

Pairing; None

Summary; The Grey Lady, about whom we know little save that she was  highly intelligent and no prospective lover could ever live up to her expectations, muses on a life's lesson she learned too late.

Time taken; 35 minutes.  
  


It is always quiet here, and I can see in her eyes whenever she enters this place that she loves it almost as much as I did. I have read all of these books; this place holds no secrets for me. She is eager to learn more, too eager, and I should tell her so, warn her of her folly; but it is not my place. She is not even of my house, so why should I concern myself? 

Ah, but I do, for how can I fail to recognise myself in her? The Friar, in one of his rare moments of lucidity, held his not inconsiderable belly in both hands and roared with laughter at the thought of another life wasted while I watched, my hands tied by my own curiosity. I always give them far too much credit, you see; I always assume that they will somehow pull back from the pursuit of knowledge for its own sake before it is too late. And they never do.

Her friends cannot influence her, her will is too strong; as was mine. Oh, I had friends for a time, many of them; I was useful to them, after all, but her friends care more for her than she knows. They left some time ago, heading for the village along the lane and shaking their heads in rue at her stubbornness. The shadows have lengthened since then and still she sits, deep in concentration. She has no idea that I sit a little way down the room and watch, and she has forgotten that her good fortune lies outside of herself and in the careful hands of her friends.

I learnt all the quiet places so jealously guarded by this castle, and made them my own. I memorised every crack in the stone-flagged floors, every twist and turn of every corridor, for how else could I have paced safely between lessons with my nose buried in a book? Now, I have an eternity to roam this place and remember my mistakes.

I drove them all away, you see, even the boy, nearly a man, who thought he could hold my heart. He could not, for he was fashioned from flesh and blood and bone, not parchment and ink and pigskin. By the time I realised my mistake it was too late and he was gone, illness stealing the life from him as it did from me soon after. He left, glad to be free of the constraints of Academe, even in so final a way; I remained, wanting nothing more than to wander here for all Eternity and even glad of the solitude I had attained at last.

I should warn her. I should sweep the books from her table, blow the pages shut with an arctic breath, send her scurrying to retrieve them and then fly through her, chilling her, sharing myself and my history with her, giving her the one moment of perfect clarity that will make crooked the otherwise too-straight path of her existence and give her a life!

The last time I encountered one such as she was a quarter century ago, and he lives here still. I see him often but he does not see me. He sees no one, for no one is good enough for him to see. He has friends but cannot see that they are such and so acknowledges them not. He saw the light too late, as did I, and he was swallowed whole by the dark. He has tried to escape its grip but its hold will always be too strong no matter how he strives. I could have acted years before and saved his fall, but he reminded me of another boy and another time and I convinced myself that he would prevail without my help. I have been so wrong, so many times, and yet I am doomed to watch and wonder.

I do regret my inaction, sometimes. There have been too many lives spoiled, over the centuries, and in sufficient number to make me realise that my own mind was not so special. Intellect is a gift, a prize, a means to an end that should not be its own. There is more in life. I know that now, now that I am arm in arm with Death and cannot experience it for myself. It is perhaps the most important lesson she will ever learn, if I choose to tell her.


	6. If I Could Turn Back Time

**If I Could Turn Back Time…**

A response to the Livejournal 30minutefics challenge number 21, Time Turner.

She had thought at first that she had been dreaming, so had given it no mind. The shadowed figure blocking out the encroaching dawn as it leant over her, deft fingers plucking at the clasp of the chain, her hair catching in it a little as he drew it around her neck…and then soft grey light as he stole from the room and her eyelids fluttered open.

It was the lightest of pendants, really, on the finest of chains. Strange that something of such huge potential should be so insubstantial, so delicate that as she arose and readied herself for the day that she should not notice its absence. They asked her why she wore it still, if she did not intend to use it; she simply smiled and said she liked it for itself. It was quite safe, anyway; they feared she would have an accident, maybe tumble down the stairs and be thrown backwards in time, suffering a fate worse than death by falling in love with an adolescent Snape…but they did not credit her with sufficient sense and so she did not tell them that the time turner had been charmed not to turn.

"Good morning, dear!" said Mrs Weasley brightly as Hermione entered the kitchen. Fred and George were there already, sitting at one end of the long oak table with their fiery red heads together; Remus was staring into space and barely acknowledged her entrance.

She took her place opposite him. He was bereft; they all were. Sirius' death had left an aching chasm in their lives and Remus was now the only Marauder left. She didn't count Pettigrew among their ranks, she thought bitterly. None of them did.

Thundering from the staircase behind her heralded Ron's arrival. His hair stuck out at all angles from his head and he looked uncharacteristically alert for that time in the morning.

"Where's Harry?" he asked breathlessly.

"Oh, you're up, dear!" his mother muttered distractedly. "Here, come and take this pot of coffee to the table please."

"Hermione. Have you seen Harry this morning?"

"No," she shrugged. "I've only just got down here myself."

"Bugger!" Ron said under his breath, scraping out the chair beside Hermione's and pulling it back up to the table just as noisily. "Look, Hermione, I'm worried about him. He was really weird last night."

"We're all a bit shocked, Ron. It's going to take him a while, you know," she replied in an undertone. She did not want to start Mrs Weasley off again because in comforting the older woman her own tears would begin to flow once more and she wanted to keep a check on her emotions for a change. "He's going to feel it worse than any of us!" She glanced across the table at Remus who was absently rubbing his forehead with his fingers. "Well, almost any of us."

"He was on about it again last night, though. Saying he should have used the mirror, saying he could have DONE something if only he'd acted sooner! He kept saying it was all his fault, and he wished he could turn back the clock!

Remus looked up at his words and said curiously,

"Hermione, where's your pendant? Don't you wear it any more?"

She looked down at her sweater, then pulled at the neck and, rather self consciously, peered down,

"Oh!" she exclaimed. "What on earth...Oh dear!"

She remembered the dark presence in her room that she had taken for a dream, a phantom that dwelt on the cusp of wakefulness. It was no wonder she had found no sinister threat in the presence; it had been her best friend.

Minutes later they had begun a systematic search of the house, leaving no room unchecked. They called and shouted, opened dusty curtains and even lifted counterpanes to check beneath the beds.

Hermione found him at the very top of the house, in the room Sirius had been used to share with Buckbeak. The sorrowful Hippogriff raised its noble head as the shaft of light from the door illuminated the room, and she entered with a respectful bow.

"Go away!"

Harry's voice came from a far corner, and she crossed the room to his side in an instant.

"It doesn't work, Hermione! It doesn't bloody work!"

He held out the time turner to her, its fine chain spilling out from his clenched fist.

"Oh, Harry, what were you thinking?" she said, crouching beside him and pulling him into her arms.

"I – I just wanted to go back, to get it right! None of it would have happened, none of it! And – and he'd still be here! God, Hermione, how am I supposed to get through this?"

She glanced at the doorway, seeing Ron, Remus and Mrs Weasley just outside.

"With us, Harry. With all of us."


	7. Looking Good

Challenge 22;

**First person** Weasley writing this week. The choice of Weasley is yours! Any Weasley, any time period. More than one Weasley if you're feeling a little saucy. The only rule is that your Weasley must have a either:  
A. a heated, angry conversation at some point in the fic with a non-Weasley. Whether it comes to blows or ends up with a handshake - up to you.  
_and/or_  
B. attempt a seduction of a non-Weasley. Whether that succeeds or not is your choice.

Rating;G

Pairing; BW/NM

Title; Looking Good

Time; 31 minutes

*************************************************************************

Looking good, Bill. Not bad for thirty five, not bad at all. No grey hairs, not since you plucked the last one this morning…no visible scalp when you stand under the light. Must get a new leather thong, though, mate; this one's looking a bit ratty. Let's see…nice arse, too. These leather trousers were a great idea. Tie flies always catch the ladies' eyes, oh yes. One more button to fasten, though…a little too much chest hair on view. You mustn't be too obvious, Billy-boy.

I always go to the same place when I come back to town. A nice little club down Nocturne Alley called Magical Mayhem. A bit of a dive, but I like to let my hair down once in a while. Working for the goblins is all very well, but they're not known for their social skills and I need to keep in practice. What better way than to 'interact' with as many ladies as I can, in the time allowed?

It's not as if I spend all my free time in there. My extra-curricular activities for the Order might as well be a full time job. Work hard, play hard. This is war, and I need an outlet just as much as the next man.

                                                               ***

Man, it's dead in here tonight. Where's everybody gone? Tallulah's giving me the glad eye but she reminds me of my mother and my little sister. I just can't go for redheads. Doesn't seem right, somehow. Minda's here too, but she always gets so clingy after sex…I can't be bothered tonight. As for Primrose…I'm not that desperate!

Wait a minute! Who IS that? Very, very nice! I wonder if she'll let me buy her a drink?

"Hi, I'm Bill. I don't think I've seen you in here before?"

"Daffodil."

"Daffodil? That's your name? That's very pretty."

"Thank you."

"Funny, though, with a name like that I'd have thought you'd be a blonde!"

"You are such a charmer, Bill. So, tell me, what brings you here tonight?"

"Company. I'm lonely, Daffodil. I work every hour the Fates send with non-humans…can I help it if I get these …cravings…for the company of my own kind?"

I gave her my most dazzling-yet-rueful smiles. I'd like to say she melted into a puddle of goo, but she was far too poised for that. She simply raised her glass to me with a small smile, and tipped its contents down her throat, never taking her eyes from mine. That, at least, was a good sign.

After half an hour or so, I'd realised she was one nut I wasn't going to crack. There was something distant and cold about her. Something knowing, too. When she got up and walked to the cloakrooms, she looked back at me and smiled, and I knew she wanted me to follow.

I didn't stand a chance. It was dark back there, the sconces had been put out. I know, because I could still smell the smoke. Two hired thugs were waiting for me and I could have kicked myself when I heard her say.

"He's all yours, boys."

I didn't have time to draw my wand, and I don't think they had brains enough to use theirs, so I suppose I was lucky. Afterwards, through the fug that kept threatening to make me pass out, I heard her say,

"Thanks for the information, Bill. My husband will find it very useful, I'm sure. And who knows, I might even get a new diamond necklace for my trouble."

I looked up at her groggily just as she tossed the long black wig in my face, revealing white blonde hair that was now free to cascade down over her shoulders.

"You should have paid more attention in Herbology, Bill. Any fool should know the daffodil comes from the genus narcissus.

                                                                 ***

These trousers will never be the same again, and I don't think I'll ever get the bloodstains out of the shirt. I wish they hadn't taken half of my earlobe when they pulled the sharktooth earring out, and my nose looks even worse than Snape's. Thank the Fates my hair's all right.

Looking good, Billy-boy. Looking good. 

Better send an owl to warn the Order.


	8. Dung

The challenge was to keep a diary for a character of my choice; I decided on Mundungus Fletcher!

**_Tuesday_**

Had to see a man about a load of quills tonight. Turns out he got them from off the back of a lorry, so to speak, so he took a good price for them. I sold them on to my mate Wally, in the 'stationery trade'. Made a tidy little profit, if I say so meself. Always knew there was money to be made in the writing game, you just got to know your market.

Had some more of that baccy off Wally. It's strong stuff, clogs up me pipe. Worth it, though.

**_Wednesday_**

Watching that Potter boy again today. Bloody boring. All he ever does is mooch about, wasting his time. Wasting everybody's time, if you ask me. His aunt shooed him out of the house early on, I was still eating me toast. I'd only just got there meself. She's a dry old stick, that Petunia woman. Dry as a nun's quim. (Although I have heard some tales about nuns, old Stilesy used to go on and on about them…course, it could've all been in his mind…) Anyway, that Dursley bint looks as if she wouldn't know a good goosing from a dress fitting. And I'm certainly not going to volunteer to find out!

Nah, give me Nympho Tonks any day. No, I mean it, somebody give me Tonks! Gods, what that woman couldn't do to a body with that metathingy stuff she does. Phwoar. 'Course, she never would. I don't have any 'unrealistic expectations', I don't care what Shacklebolt said. I know my place.

**_Thursday_**

Another action packed day. I missed out on a whole load of moody silverware last night thanks to Harry bleeding Potter. Oh, don't get me wrong, he's a decent enough kid – a bloody important one too, if the Department of Mysteries is to be believed – but babysitting him isn't half cramping my style. I could've turned over about fifty galleons last night, if I'd been at that warehouse. Instead, old Stilesy got the lot, and he doesn't even know what to bloody well do with it! I can see it now, Dobber Jones'll rip him off and no mistake.

Oh well. Not my problem. Now where's that bloody pipe?

**_Friday_**

I found a new tee-shirt today. Well, I say new…it's a bit crumpled and stained, on account of it being found under the bed, but it'll do. Bloody hot week it's been, the old one was getting a bit whiffy. A bit crusty too. Don't want to appear too conspicuous to the Muggles. Need to blend in, like.

**_Saturday_**

Bloody Arabella Figg, batty old bint! I only left a few minutes early, how the devil was I supposed to know there'd be trouble?

I kept an eye on the boy all day. Sat on a bloody hard bench for two hours trying not to watch him playing on the swings in that little park near Privet Drive, and I knew there were some cauldrons on offer. Wally told me all about it last night, his mate Sparky was getting them straight from the forge, so to speak. A bit moody, a bit dodgy, but all good gear. Clear profit of seventy galleons, split two ways. And I only knocked off half an hour early, fer pity's sake!

'Course, the bleedin' Dementors had to show up, didn't they? And the bloody lad was with his fat cousin who saw everything! What a bloody mess! He didn't understand any of it, of course…not exactly the brightest knut in the pouch…I don't know why they didn't send someone to Obliviate him.

Okay, okay…that would've been down to me, wouldn't it, if I'd been there. Figg's a Squib, so she couldn't do much except screech about what a waste of space I am. I told her, she should try sweating around Little Whinging all bloody summer, gagging for a cup of tea and a smoke.

Still, me and Wally managed to wangle ninety galleons out of Dobber for them cauldrons, so it was quite a successful day, really.

Wonder if Shacklebolt'll take a bribe? I don't want to go back to a nice cushy little office job at the Ministry again, I'd lose all my contacts, not to mention my street cred.

And Wally's given me some more of that wacky baccy. Sweet.

**_Sunday_**

She's a good woman, that Molly Weasley. Her harsh tongue and jabbing finger are just a front. She finds me completely irresistible. Gods, I'm stuffed. She knows how to cook. Nice bit of china here, too…I bet it's worth a knut or two. The silverware, now that's in a different league. Shame it has the Black family crest on it, but I bet it'd rub off easy enough. Old Sirius might be a little wary of me now, though, for mentioning it. Bloody Shacklebolt'd have my guts for garters too. Ah well, best not to mix business with…other business. That's what my old mum used to say. Either her or Wally, anyhow.

Wonder if Nympho would like a smoke with me?


	9. Dark Mark

**Challenge 24; Write any story about any character, using the opening and closing sentences provided.**

**Title; Dark Mark**

**Rating; G**

**Pairing; None**

**Time; 35 minutes not including breaks.**

**Darkness came swiftly that evening, thanks to the heavy clouds that presented a cold crystalline gift to Hogwarts and the nearby village of Hogsmeade.**  
As far as the eye could see, which was not far that snow-filled night, everything was coated in white. The many fields, separated by low hedgerows in more clement seasons, were one endless undulation of white, while the trees hung heavy with snow, their branches bowed under the weight of millions of tiny crystals of ice, each one unique and the epitome of purity. Cold black eyes looked straight ahead, determined footfalls trod down the soft carpet, a cloak darker than the night followed in the wake of its wearer tracing swirling patterns in powdery whiteness.

He besmirched the scene. He was an ugly blot on the otherwise unspoilt landscape. He was its very own Dark Mark. He always had been, and the letter had merely served to emphasise that he always would be, too. He had not stayed to listen to Dumbledore's placatory nonsense. He would not be lulled into acceptance by the soporific phoenix song, not this time. The Ministry was convinced of his guilt, and rightly so. His sacrifices would never be recognised, so why did he still even bother to try to make amends? It would never be enough, never enough for them, and he was sick and tired of pretending to be above it all.

He reached the outskirts of the Forbidden Forest and paused, turning to look back to the school. He was not hesitating, for his mind was set and he would not be dissuaded; Dumbledore himself would not have been able to alter his course now, although it would have been nice if the Headmaster had at least tried. He snorted, his breath curling around his face in the frigid night.

The ultimate sacrifice, and still it would not be enough. A suicide mission, Albus had called it, and in contravention of the Prophecy. The famous Prophecy that would make a martyr of Saint Potter and all his little acolytes too. Well, maybe it would, but maybe he had his own destiny to fulfil that would either destroy the Dark Lord or, a more likely prospect, weaken him sufficiently to allow The Boy Who Was So Bloody Lucky to swan in at the last minute and take all the credit. Potter would be lauded and feted for years and given the Order of Merlin, First Class that he himself had deserved for so long. Or maybe the Ministry would create an all-new honour for the whelp, the very first medal from the Order of the Completely Jammy Little Scrote Who Ignores All The Effort Other People Put In To Save His Sorry Little Neck.

His lips set in a tight line that was the closest he ever got to a grim smile and the air reverberated with a crack as he Disapparated.

The old man sank to his knees in the snow and wept. Too late, always too late. Too late with his praise, with his understanding, with his favour…with his love. Too late to stop the proud, damaged man from sacrificing himself for the cause.

No. Not true. Not too late. He could have prevented it, could have used his magic to bind the dark man's hands, to still the incantation and trap it in his mouth, to keep him safe at Hogwarts, where he belonged. Where he was loved.

The old man remained on his knees in the snow and his tears froze on his cheeks.

The letter to the Ministry was brief. The deed was done, and their sources would no doubt have their answer by daybreak. The Headmaster's fingers were still numbed by the cold and he shivered in wet robes whose hems were still caked in the tenacious snow. The owl hooted impatiently as arthritic hands fastened the sealed letter to its leg and then it was off, swooping through the opened casement window into the grey dawn.

**He shivered as he watched the owl take flight, wondering if he would ever be warm again.**


End file.
